


Vitam Mortem

by luvkurai



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, F/M, I don't speak latin ok?, Kink Meme, Masturbation, She gets off thinking about murder because that's totally normal in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you enjoying yourself?” The doctor’s voice drags her, with a bang, from her building arousal. </p><p>For the Kink Meme Prompt: Hannibal discovers Abigail masturbating in his office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vitam Mortem

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't speak Latin. So give me a break if I got the title wrong, alright?
> 
> I couldn't figure out how old Abigail is supposed to be. If she's underage in the canon, this is an AU where she is 18-19. 
> 
> Kink Meme Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=539487#cmt539487

It must go against some FBI policy, Abigail thinks, to have a witness (and a victim) of a crime be sent to the same psychiatrist as one of the agents working the case. That they would want Abigail to talk to Dr. Lecter, who was also present that day, is even more questionable.

Still, Abigail isn’t about to complain. Seeing new faces has become a substantial annoyance. They all want to get something out of her, be it a confession of guilt or anything she can provide regarding her father. She is purposely unhelpful to both groups.

But Dr. Lecter is different. He had…helped her. Whether or not it would have been better just to come clean…well, there isn’t much a point in dwelling on it now. What’s done is done. Besides, she can trust him—she is keeping his secret too, after all.

The doctor had excused himself ten minutes earlier, without bothering to disclose his intentions to Abigail. So she sits alone on his powder blue couch, attempting carelessly to smooth out the fabric of her skirt. She thinks about what he’ll ask her, knows he’ll bring up _that_. Maybe he’ll ask her to describe it, the murder itself.

What would she even say? It’s all a blur, really. She remembers the blood, the feeling of the hunting blade becoming wet with crimson liquid. She remembers the sound the body made when it hit the floor—shockingly inhuman—as the life left the man’s eyes.

More than anything, she remembers the spark of life she felt—more so than any she had ever felt, in her entire life (though her experience in hunting created a somewhat similar sensation). She felt the buzz of life, because she was _alive_ and he _wasn’t_ and the outcome could have been very different. Her entire body heats at the memory, heartbeat speeding up and blood rushing in her ears. Absently, her hand brushes against her crotch.

The spark of pleasure is short and sudden, beginning and ending with the single touch. But it is enough to make her want more, to make her mindlessly raise her skirt above her hips and part her legs. She lowers her hand, using her index finger to brush lightly against her panties before increasing the pressure. The motion makes the fabric dig into her, burying between her folds. It slides deliciously against her clit and before she knows it, she’s moaning, shifting on the couch so her hand may gain better access.

In a place deep inside her, at the back of her mind, she knows this is wrong, that recollection of murder should not create these feelings. But she can’t care when this is the first time she’s relaxed, even a little bit, in weeks.

Eventually, the friction of the fabric against her cunt is not enough. She hooks a finger into the fabric, shoves it to the side and spreads her legs even further. Three fingers, she rubs herself, alternating between side to side, up and down, and circling motions. Her head falls backwards against the couch, eyes closing with a thump. Her free hand moves to her chest and she feels herself up over her sweater, with one hand.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” The doctor’s voice drags her, with a bang, from her building arousal. She hadn’t even heard him come in, but he’s standing on this side of the closed door. Mouth clamps shut, legs squeeze together, elastic of her panties snaps audibly against her thighs. She instantaneously straightens up, struggling to remove the embarrassment from her face.

She makes a sorry attempt at an excuse, “I didn’t—“ but cuts herself off when she sees that Dr. Lecter isn’t watching her. Instead, he strides past, crosses the room to his desk. Sits with grace. Abigail is still in shock, unsure what the social norm for this sort of situation could possibly be. Should she apologize?

_Well done. Caught masturbating on your therapist’s couch._ She runs her fingers through her hair.

“You did not answer my question,” he says, after he shuffles the papers on his desk around for a moment. When she only gazes at him questioningly, he elaborates, “Were you enjoying yourself?”

Her face flushes and she drops her eyes to the floor. Tries to think of a snarky comment, but her mind is a blank slate.

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear,” he says. She looks up at him and even if he can keep the wicked smile from his face, she can hear it in his voice. “Masturbation is a completely normal, healthy activity for young women.”

“Then you must be relieved,” she finally manages to say, bitingly. He hums in question, requesting explanation. “Because that’s why I’m here, right? So you can check if I’m a ‘normal young woman’. For the FBI.”

His lips quirk up at her, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “More or less. Our friends at the Bureau do have some questions that they’d like me to answer, but I will have to decline them—doctor-patient confidentiality, of course. I’d rather see how you have been coping since your unfortunate accident.”

His voice darkens, just slightly, when he mentions her accidental murder of Nicholas Boyle. She would not have noticed it, had her senses not been heightened, intensified.

He’s waiting for a response, so she offers up a stony, “I’m fine.”

She means to give nothing away, but feels as if she has given up everything—the sleepless nights, her inability to keep food down, the murder playing over and over again in her mind. The feeling that she really is her father’s daughter. Dr. Lecter continues to watch her; she continues to sit straight, as if a board has been tied to her back.

“That _is_ good to hear,” he says, but he obviously doesn’t believe her. “Have the nightmares stopped?”

_Of course not._ She purses her lips, annoyed for a reason that she can’t really place.

“They will fade, with time,” he assures her. His voice is firm, clinical, as if that makes her more likely to believe him. “For today, I thought it would be beneficial for you to describe what you have been seeing. There is a small amount of evidence showing that discussion of anxieties can alleviate them.”

She isn’t listening, too aware of the continuously present pulsing warmth between her legs, of the way her nipples ache despite the fact she barely touched them. She honestly can’t believe he can go on like this, prattling information at her, when he just caught her getting off on his luxurious couch.

“I have not personally been witness to this, but understanding where your fears lie will, at the very least, help me to determine the best course for your… _Ah_.” The vocalization of surprise calls her to attention. “You are still aroused.”

Abigail bites into the inside of her cheek and Hannibal raises his arm, crooks a finger at her, bidding her to approach. She doesn’t hesitate, though she probably should, to think it through. She arrives at his side, skirt skimming her smooth knees. Deft fingers tug at the scarf around her neck. She is unsure what to do with herself until Dr. Lecter pats the top of his desk closest to Abigail and she sits at the wordless command. He turns to look at her. Though he is looking up and she is looking down, she still feels (deliciously) exposed.

“What thought patterns drove you to pleasure yourself in my office, Abigail?” Her breath catches in her throat. His voice is slightly mocking, but alluring and powerful, more so up close, commanding obedience even when no explicit command is given. The thought of lying to him does not even cross her mind.

“I was… thinking about killing Nicholas Boyle.” Her voice is small, meek, but there is no doubt in her mind that he heard her very clearly. No sooner than the words pass from her lips does a dark look flash over his eyes, gone too fast to dwell on. She notices, for the first time, that while his eyes are dark, they have the slightest tinge of maroon in them—red, but only if you look closely.

Without breaking eye contact, he rolls his chair slightly to the side, to sit directly in front of her. From above, she has an excellent view of his very foreign-formed cheekbones, and the medley of colors streaming from his scalp—light brown, blond and a few strands of silver grey, highlighting the mix.

“Would you care to elaborate?” As he speaks, he takes an ankle in each hand, moving her feet from their dangling position to rest on either side of his legs, on his chair. Her arousal is coming back fast, like the tide rushing in from the sea.

“His life… was so fragile…” Her voice is a breath, a whisper, but it strengthens with every word, emboldened by the look in his eyes. “He was there, then he was gone, just with a flick of my wrist.”

She should shy from saying such things aloud, but she knows he cannot tell anyone, is unable to reveal her secret without condemning himself in the same stroke. But his reactions, they aren’t what she would expect, even from a trained psychiatrist, already desensitized.

He inches his hands up her smooth legs, thumb circling against her pale flesh as he goes. “I imagine that you were quite scared, at the time.”

She nods. “I thought I was going to die, but—“ He halts, waiting pointedly for her to continue. Her comment is morbidly simple: “He died instead.”

“ _Vitam mortem_ ,” he says. Dr. Lecter’s accent melts upon the foreign words like dark, rich chocolate upon her tongue.

“Hm?”

“’Life from death’. Latin.” His hands are on her knees now. Finally, he removes his eyes from hers, to gaze between her legs instead. In one movement, he spreads her legs apart and pulls her closer by the underside of the knees. The motion makes her skirt ride up, settling atop her waist, keeping nothing hidden. Obviously having chosen to abandon all charades of propriety, the doctor dips his head towards her cunt, inhaling deeply. The sound, so erotic and unexpected, sends shivers of lust up and down her spine; she groans.

His fingers prod into the waistband of her panties. The slight, leveraged lift of her hips, is all the consent he requires as he swiftly pulls the fabric from the apex of her thighs.

Abigail suddenly feels overheated, needs to cool down or she fears she’ll combust. She attempts to pull her sweater elegantly over her head, but loses her balance in the process. Dr. Lecter’s broad, long-fingered hands catch her, sliding the sweater up her sides, touching every inch of her along the way. He tosses the knit material to the side and resettles in his chair, with a time-to-get-back-to-work sort of air.

“Put your feet on my armrests, Abigail.” She obeys, feels her cunt angle upwards, and he skims his hands up the flesh on the back of her thighs. “Good girl.”

She feels a sudden desire, ridiculously, to make conversation: “Have you ever… ever killed—?” Her question is cut off when he stretches his thumb out, letting it slide up and down her slit. She moans; he chuckles.

She isn’t a virgin, of course she isn’t. She went to prom, went all the way with a temporary boyfriend. He finished before she even really got into it. This is completely different—Dr. Lecter seems completely focused on her pleasure, despite the clearly visible outline of his forming erection. That he is so focused on her makes her feel even more uncovered, more bare. _Well, I am half naked on his desk._

His finger brushes _firmly_ against her clit. He watches her reaction, then does it again, repeatedly until she is mewling and he can feel her pulse against his finger. Not ceasing his thumb’s movements for even a microsecond, he turns his hand slightly to press a long finger against her hole, pushing slowly inside her.

“Doctor…Doctor Lecter…”

“Hannibal, please,” he purrs. She spasms, almost violently, when the finger inside her bends, just slightly.

“Ha- _Hannibal_ …” His name rolls off her tongue on the wave of a breath, crashing around both of them with a groan. His free hand stretches upwards, presses against her abdomen until she leans backwards, back flat against the table. She feels a stack of papers, pulled together by a sharp paper clip, beneath her spine, but makes no effort to remove it. That this is happening on his desk, in his workplace, when they’re supposed to be talking about her _feelings,_ makes it all the more delectable.

Hannibal buries his face between her legs. Tongue thrusts shallowly in and out of her, and all the while his index finger twirls around her clitoris, lubricated with warm saliva and the liquid from her prior arousal. She feels his nose buried deep in her pubic hair.

“F- _fuck_ ,” she gasps out. Hannibal’s fingers pinch at her inner thigh, making her entire body tense.

“Language,” he chides, tongue vibrating against her with each heavenly syllable. She isn’t entirely sure whether he is mocking or serious. Either way, she shuts her mouth, save for a wordless moan every now and then. She can feel the orgasm coming closer, with every motion the man makes. Her hands fly to her face, she mouths at her palm, her wrist, sucks on the side of her thumb. He adds a bit of teeth, grazing lightly upon her.

“ _Please_ , sir, I…”

In response, his teeth clasp tightly, biting at her clitoris. She cums in a rush, hands fly out to her sides, grasping onto anything and everything, back arches upwards. Hannibal palms her hips, restraining her so she is unable to move away from his mouth, which continues its ministrations. Light flashes in her vision, stars across her spectrum, and, for an instant, she is free.

When she floats back down to earth, she almost feels like her old self. Not entirely, just a little bit. She feels like she should thank him, as he pulls her gently from the table and into his lap, but it doesn’t seem entirely appropriate.

“That was _way_ better than doing it on my own,” she says, and smiles when she hears him laugh beneath her. He presses his lips against the scarf, somehow still tightly wound around her neck. She imagines him feeling for the scar on her neck, the scar her father created. The realization comes, in a ponderous moment, that Hannibal’s comment—“ _I am nothing like your Dad”_ —couldn’t have been more true.

**Author's Note:**

> luvkurai.tumblr.com


End file.
